An Alcoholic by Any Other Name
by bsus1412
Summary: My take on how Gin acquired his name and joined the Black Organization. Part fanfiction and part crackfiction.
1. Chapter 1

**An Alcoholic by Any Other Name**

 **Author's Note:** _This is the first time I have ever written a full-length story by any amount of length, and I couldn't resist finishing it once I got the idea to write this one-shot. The story came to me from a typo in someone's story where they published the members of the Black Organization to be named as alcoholics. This little gag was too funny to be passed up, and so I rolled with it and typed up this origin story for Gin and the Black Organization. I will be using the English translation name of Melkior as his starting alias, as that was dropped later on once the manga caught up._

A tall man with piercing eyes calmly walked down a long corridor, hidden behind a fake wall in an office building situated in the heart of the Marunouchi financial district. The office was, of course, a front for various criminal activities; and try as they might, the police were never able to pin any crime on those who worked for this company, if they were even able to discover any crime took place. He was a fierce-looking man, and one might want to stop and stare at his unusually long tresses of silver hair that threatened to reach the floor. Few did, as people associated with him tended to give him a wide berth, as if they were afraid what he might do to them. This wasn't an unreasonable assumption though, as this man had a sinister reputation among the Tokyo Underworld's seamier contacts. Those who knew of him spoke with a whisper, as if afraid that he would suddenly appear behind them with a knife to their throat and an ominous grin on his face. No one even knew his real name, as he regularly changed aliases every few months. Today, he was going by "Melkior," though he expected to be soon finished with the name.

Melkior had been involved with this office for a few months now, blackmailing businessmen who hesitated to acquiesce to the demands of the company, and quietly eliminating those that stubbornly refused. It was good work and paid handsomely, but this man was itching for more… variety. He was tired of dealing with the same corrupt businessmen and the occasional politician who needed financial backing, and hoped that that he would soon find more engaging opportunities that would let him fully demonstrate the skills that had led to him being feared by both capitalists and criminals. His summons came in the form of a cryptic email, sent anonymously through at least five separate servers, which requested him to come to a floor he had rarely visited and enter through a door he never even knew existed.

His musings were interrupted by the sight of a security camera at the end of the corridor, and an advanced biometrics scanner by the side of a heavy metal door. The silver-haired man looked up and glared up at the camera, and a voice projected from hidden speakers. "If you wish to enter, place your hand on the scanner." Melkior did so, and the door opened to reveal an elegant desk, behind which an array of computer monitors displayed all kinds of security feeds. Displayed on these monitors were figures he recognized, while others remained wholly new to him, though he suspected that they were fellow operatives for the company that he had simply never met. To the sides of the desk were bookshelves, filled with journals, binders, and various diskettes that he assumed were filled with financial details and secrets of the highest degree. He himself had handled a few of them, and knew that what was contained on them could destroy businesses if their very existence were known. A pair of grotesque statues situated themselves in the corners of the room, while a liquor cabinet, filled with a substantial and varying amount of alcohol, rested by the wall, and he subtly raised his eyebrows in faint surprise while cautiously entering.

A high-backed chair faced the rows of monitors, and the chair shifted to reveal that it was occupied. Melkior positioned himself over by a wall so as not to leave himself vulnerable to any surprises from behind. "So you must be the elusive boss of this company. I was wondering if I'd ever see you."

When the man seated in the chair spoke, his voice was calm and collected, yet there was a faint hint of baleful excitement within. "I'm glad you finally found me, Melkior. I admire your rise through this company. How long has it been since you started work here? No, don't bother answering that. It matters little compared to your accomplishments. 87 operations, 23 aliases, and 7 countries. Of course, those are just the ones in my private records. I like you. You know how to handle complex operations, and you're not afraid to dirty your hands with blood should the need arise. That shows a real go-getter personality."

Melkior sniffed at hearing that particular phrase. A "go-getter personality?" It was almost amusing to think that a man who had remained hidden in mystery would use such a banal phrase. "Almost," being the operative word. Melkior tried to guess the man's age from his voice, but it was difficult to place. There was an undercurrent of energy that suggested youth, yet the boss must be at least in his 40's if Melkior was correct in his assumption.

"You don't seem all that much to me. Certainly not the mythical leader that the rumors made you out to be."

The voice developed into a curious tone, and the slight rustling of fabric and paper led Melkior to believe that the figure had set down some papers that he had likely been perusing. "Oh? And what rumors have you uncovered?"

Shrugging, Melkior took a moment to reflect on what he had heard and smirked. "Nothing major. Just murmurings of a man at the top, looking to grasp the phoenix's egg of immortality. I dismissed those as mere gibberish. The last ravings of madmen who were useless to this organization."

The boss chuckled at that statement. "Don't sound too demeaning of those remarks. I assure you that they are more rooted in fact than you might believe."

"Perhaps, but I find it hard to believe in the existence of immortality. I have found that a bullet between the eyes or a knife through the spinal column tends to make equivocators out of most believers." He allowed himself a moment of amusement at the memory, and if anyone had been standing next to him, they would have shivered in fear. "I encountered plenty of people who believed that they would live forever, and took great pleasure in ridding them of that foolish delusion."

The man belted out a hearty laugh. "True enough. As you said, that sort of immortality often leads to a fool's death in an unmarked grave, and anyone who says otherwise is a charlatan. Still, I don't appreciate you using up my employees like that. It's too much of a waste! A damn waste!" A fist thudded against the table, and Melkior was able to hear the distinct sound of a glass being disturbed amid the muffled thud. "Does immortality offend you that much?"

It was then that Melkior noticed that the man speaking with him had started to develop a slight slur in his voice.

"I know I'm probably going to regret this question, but have you been drinking?"

"Nonsense. I'm completely one hundred twenty percent sober," the man vehemently responded.

"That's utterly preposterous. Regardless of your stature, count your blessings that I haven't killed you for wasting my energy in coming here. If you don't have anything to say that's worth my time, I'm leaving." He turned his back to depart, and as he did, he muttered one parting shot, "To be perfectly honest, I highly doubt that you're the real boss. You're just a puppet anywa-"

A bullet whizzed by his left cheek, just narrowly avoiding drawing blood. Eyes slightly widening in surprise, Melkior looked up to see the hint of smoke wafting from a muzzle that he had only now noticed as part of a bizarre sculpture he had summarily dismissed. He then realized that the muzzle was, in fact, cleverly disguised as part of the protruding limbs of the sculpture, resting on a rotating base.

The man moved his hand from a console on his chair. "I may, as you say, be slightly inebriated, but that doesn't mean that I can't kill you where you stand without leaving this chair. So, are you finally ready to listen to my offer?"

With the sound of a slight CLINK of a glass, the man continued. "I'm looking to absorb you into an organization that has a reach far greater than this company's. The profits here are lucrative enough, but I'm sure you would agree with me that they are much too limited for a man of your abilities"

"And what manner of position are you offering me?"

"A place by my side as an oversight executive in an organization that rose from the ashes of an empire that this company was founded upon. An organization that hides in the shadows behind every company and police force."

Melkior raised an eyebrow at that statement. "An audacious statement. "I must admit that my curiosity is peaked, but what would lead you to believe that I should follow a man who hides in the shadows and refuses to show his face?"

"I don't recall you objecting before when you signed on to be a member of this company. Perhaps you're correct that I am not to be trusted. Perhaps not. It matters little in the grand scheme. I can promise you that as long as you follow my orders such as I give them, you will find yourself wanting little and will have ample opportunities to savor the perks of being an executive."

Melkior realized, of course, that his employer gave no assurances of not betraying him, but that was to be expected. No one who worked for this company promised anything they couldn't renege and renegotiate on. Such was the way of business, after all. A continuation of this charade could provide him with further answers before he would be convinced that the man's offer was genuine.

It was not as if he believed in this man's ridiculous faith in the power of immortality, but he understood that the rewards would be to his advantage if he continued his work for his mysterious employer. Besides which, If this man could conceal an advanced weapons system inside a sculpture while leaving no part of it visible, he was certainly not a man to be trifled with. Not to mention his employer's files listed operations that were intentionally kept off-the-books. If these records were as extensive as he thought, perhaps it was truly was for the best to agree to his proposal. "And what is this higher purpose you desire?"

"An organization that operates at the highest level of conspiracy, where no one knows all of the faces of each other, and where we can pour all of our cumulative resources into one goal."

Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, Melkior casually extracted one and stuck it between his teeth. Without asking for permission, he flicked open a lighter he kept in his pocket, lit it, and inhaled deeply. The dancing shapes of the wafting cigarette smoke gave him a moment to compose his next thought. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that the current purpose of this organization? We already have ties into every major tech company and currently own over a quarter of the Diet's politicians. If you're suggesting the ability to assistant someone with complete impunity, I could understand this level of secrecy. But as for everything else, there's not much that can be accomplished that this organization isn't already doing."

"But not with style!"

Melkior froze in mid-inhalation, the cigarette precariously dangling from his lips. "… Come again?"

"What do you think makes an organization be remembered by everyone? Is it the name? The people who work for it? No! It's got to have a sense of class all of its own. A visual design that accentuates the appellation." With each declaration, the boss thumped his fist against the table. "And to create that, each member must dress in a style that perfectly befits our sacred name."

Melkor internally groaned. "And what name is that? To be perfectly honest, your entire scheme sounds ludicrous. Are you seriously considering wasting the resources of this company on trivialities such as a… dress code?"

"And why not? What you call a Dress Code, I see a means of identifying ourselves from the lower criminal classes. A way to ensure that every one we do business with recognizes us through our attire." The boss took a moment to compose himself. "And as such, every senior member in our organization dresses in black so that others can refer to us as the Black Organization."

'Refer to'? Am I to understand that this organization's real name is something different?"

"Ah ah ah. That would be telling! "Black Organization" is fine for now. If you want to learn the real name, you will have to earn my trust."

"And by earn your trust, you mean wear black and run around the city killing anyone you deem appropriate."

"Precisely!"

Melkior sighed in frustration. It was difficult to discern solid fact from the boss he had grudgingly accepted earlier. He tried again.

"Let me restate my concern. The whole point of this company is to continue our work without being recognized. Having every executive dressed entirely in black would make us stand out even more." Frowning in contemplation, "While I admit that certain prominent features often work to my advantage in specific cases, I hardly see it necessary to have everyone in our organization to be easily recognizable. If the intelligence agencies and those fools in the police were to become interested in us, it would be… problematic."

"Don't be absurd. Black is quickly becoming the popular color of choice to wear. I'm sure you will fit in nicely with the crowds. You already have made significant progress with your infiltration assignments. I'm sure that we'll find some… select work that will cater to your unique skills. Besides, as added protection, we assign each agent a specific code name."

Melkior reflected upon his proposal. That, at least sounded more reasonable. He had been considering dropping "Melkior" soon, as the name was rapidly approaching the end of its use. "Are you suggesting one for me to adopt?"

The man sitting in the chair shifted again, and Melkior detected suppressed mirth in his voice. "I believe "Gin" would be a perfect name for you. You have the perfect temperament for that particular codename, and then there's your hair."

"What about my hair?"

"Oh, nothing really. Pay it no heed," the man airily responded, waving his hand. The chair swerved enough to reveal a bottle of gin and the edge of a decanter filled with bourbon.

"You have been drinking the entire time we've been having this conversation, haven't you?" This explained quite a bit, though Melkior reflected that these protective methods could be turned to his advantage. After all, it wasn't as if the boss was requiring EVERY member to dress in black and refer to themselves with code names. A sudden thought struck him. Shifting his eyes to the liquor cabinet, "Are you planning on assigning names based on… brands of alcohol?

"And what if I am? There are enough brands out there to make each alias a reflection of the top qualities of my senior agents. I think that it would make for a splendid scheme."

"Hmm, I'd have to think on that." Melkior wasn't fully convinced, but he accepted that the boss's idea would have merits in the long run.

"Does this mean that you have finally accepted my offer?"

"I suppose I have."

"Then I whole-heartedly welcome you to the Black Organization, Gin. Please. Help yourself to a drink to celebrate your ascendancy to a higher order of espionage and subversion."

"Gin" walked over to the cabinet and picked up a glass in a side-cupboard. Pouring himself a shot of gin, he swirled it a moment, then drained the glass.

"Hmmph. You know, this isn't that bad."

The boss only grinned in response.


	2. Chapter 2

**An Alcoholic by Any Other Name**

 **Chapter 2**

 **10 years later…**

"I don't care if that damn new agent is rising up the ranks in our organization," Gin muttered angrily, slamming a glass down. "I'm sick and tired of being asked if that Moroboshi fool is related to me. Just because we have similar hair styles, all of the senior agents now have the audacity to take liberties with my name and rank."

He looked down at the new agent who had made one comment too many about his hair, and was now clutching his leg in extreme agony.

"Oh, shut up," said Gin. "It's just a bullet wound. You should be used to them by now, if you've worked here even half as long as I have.'"

" _ **BUT MY LEEEGGG!**_ Damn you, Gin! What did I do to you this time?!" the agent angrily protested from the floor.

"If you must know, you mentioned my hair and that idiot in the same sentence. I trust you'll refrain from making that mistake again in the future?"

Not trusting himself to speak, the agent fearfully nodded.

Gin just grunted in acknowledgment. "Honestly. The weaklings the Boss keeps hiring just keep getting more and more pathetic."

Turning back to his drink, he continued muttering to himself. "I'll bet That Person hired him just so he could get his laughs as that bastard gets under my skin! What kind of name is Rye, anyways? It's not even a real alcohol. Sounds more like some kind of germ. My code name is more refined than his is, for what that's worth." Taking a swig of his drink, he proclaimed, "I'm going to regret working for this organization if I have to regularly put up with that scum!"

It was lucky for Gin that this particular bar was one frequented by the members of the Black Organization, and therefore completely unknown to any even remotely upstanding member of society. Otherwise, Gin's continuous string of complaints could very well have landed him in some hot water with the authorities. His threats of violent reprisal, and said actions of violent reprisal, were sadly all too common for this bar, and there was always a dedicated cleaning crew who specialized in the removal of bloodstains.

The bartender glanced over at Gin from time to time, as if afraid that Gin would turn his next drunken ire over to him. Luckily, Gin was more concerned with drowning his complaints in alcohol than picking fights with everyone who irritated him.

Gin had taken to drinking after several of his missions. It started innocuous enough, but soon he was going through at least two bottles a week. Contrary to his boss's original belief, the organization was attracting more and more attention, as each mission led to greater stakes than what Gin was used to four years previous. The "Black Organization," as it was now referred to, quickly garnered the attention of every major law enforcement agency across the continents. There were no infiltrators as of yet (so far as Gin knew), but he had come across files pertaining to the exploits of his employer while infiltrating a CIA outpost operating in Japan. Gin took great pleasure in burning that warehouse to the ground and pinning the blame on a radical nationalist group operating in its vicinity.

Still, despite his exploits, he found himself to be constantly exasperated by his subordinates, whom he had to strictly chastise whenever a mission threatened to go wrong.

Finishing his glass, Gin paused to reflect on the other aspects of his job. "At least the pay is good, and I have the right to kill anyone I choose if they aren't doing their job properly. My partner is competent enough, though I often wonder what the boss saw in him when he was hired. If he can't even deduce a mole from a single unlisted call made on a burner phone, he has no place in this organization. It's not as if it's that hard to trace, what with the technology we've helped ourselves to."

Most of this equipment came from businessmen who were blackmailed by the organization, but the real advancement that unnerved Gin was in the Biological Development Laboratory. This was where the Boss had funneled most of his funding through in the hope that he might find some clue to the secret of immortality. That was what the Boss slipped to Gin one day as they were sharing drinks one day in celebration over a noticeably successful mission, though Gin suspected there was more to this story than the Boss was revealing.

"How is my favorite agent doing?" the Boss asked as he poured himself another drink. "I trust there were no problems with that nosy foreign investigator. What was his name again? Peterson, wasn't it?"

"Who?" replied Gin, sipping his drink indifferently.

"You remember. That nosy bastard sticking his face into our operations. I had you dispose of him just last week."

"Sorry. Don't remember him. Was he that blonde man who was asking questions about our Ginza branch?"

The boss paused to consider, before shaking his head. "That was the police officer Kaneda who fell off a bridge last month."

Gin frowned in contemplation. "Hrrmmn. I'll take your word on that."

"So you really don't remember him?"

"No. Should I?"

Waving his hand airily, the Boss replied, "Not really. I suppose it makes no difference. That said, I brought you up here to see if you had any particular opinion about the new hiring process I've initiated."

Gin refilled his glass, and used that moment to gather his thoughts. "I have been noticing a trend in the increasing headstrong nature of the new recruits. They seem to feel that they have a right to criticize their superiors' judgment and often take their time in accomplishing their intended missions."

The Boss chuckled. "As I recall, you had that same tendency early on in your work at the company. Always eager to prove yourself to the organization, I believe. Gin, the eternal perfectionist"

"Nonetheless, I don't appreciate having to cover for these operatives. They should be able to handle their own missions without the need for my assistance."

"Give it time. I'm sure the agents will blossom into fine liquors, much like yourself. Just give them time, and things will take care of themselves."

Gin frowned, but accepted the Boss's words. "We'll see," he muttered as he finished off his drink.

ooo

 _Back at the bar…_

Despite the Boss's promises, there was one particular agent who was a persistent thorn in his side. Her name was Vermouth, and she constantly irritated Gin whenever she walked into the room he occupied.

He poured himself another glass, working himself up even further.

"That damn demon woman! It's not enough that I had to work my ass off to cover up for any indiscretion the peons make, but now I have to constantly deal with that harlot. I don't care if that bitch is his lover, secretary, or even his damn daughter. Cozying up to the Boss like that, it's as if she's trying to rub it in my face that she's on a higher level as I am. It's infuriating!"

Her espionage skills may be adequate, but her ruthlessness leaves much to be desired. Her sentimentality is going to get all of us killed one day, and I refuse to put my head on the same block as hers. If she attempts to seduce me one more time, I'm going to take my garrote wire and tear off her head!"

The sound of a door opening broke Gin out of his liquor-induced monologue. He barely glanced up from his drink, but kept one eye on the mirror behind the bar. Gin sighed in resignation when he caught a tuft of platinum-blonde hair at the edge of the reflection.

"Well, isn't this a nice surprise. I come home from an exhausting mission, and there's my favorite liquor waiting for me."

Gin refused to dignify that statement with a response. He merely sat still in his chair, his glare fixated on her reflection in the mirror, as Vermouth sauntered over to him.

"My, what are we going to do with you, Gin? All of these bodies you leave lying around make quite a mess."

Gin sniffed in disdain. "And what of your messes? Don't tell me you just finished playing with another agent. How you managed to worm your way into this position is revolting."

Vermouth pouted impetuously, casually raising the glass Gin had finished to her lips. "I must say you have excellent taste in liquors, Gin. A Johnny Walker, and a Black Label, no less. Not a fan of your namesake?"

Gin shot her a venomous look, and scathingly retorted, "Do us both a favor, and choke on a bullet."

Vermouth reeled back in surprise, a display of shock and hurt affection on her face. "Well, now. That's no way to treat a lady. I came here as a favor for you, and this is the thanks I get?"

Gin actually snorted, hearing that remark. Of course, he did it in as dignified manner as it was possible to be, under the circumstances of him being completely intoxicated. "I don't need any favors from you. From what rumors I've heard, you are more of a hag than a lady. Isn't it time you gave up performing by now?"

Slapping her hand down hard on the counter, Vermouth used her other hand to sweep the glasses off and sent them crashing to the floor. She leaned over and glared at Gin, staring him dead in the eyes. "That's a laugh, coming from you. A full head of grey hair at your age should have landed you in a retirement home by now, or preferably a coffin!"

Gin verbally fired back in as malicious a tone as Vermouth used to accentuate her scathing insult. "This coming from a sow who uses her position here to whore herself for our boss? Stop trying to humiliate yourself further." He shot her a contemptuous look, as he his lip curled in disgust.

Vermouth reeled back incensed, but suddenly stopped short, while her eyes narrowed in crafty amusement. She smirked, and ran her fingers over the silver strands of Gin's hair. "That almost hurt me, Gin. I'll tell you what. You stop referring to me as a scarlet woman and I'll stop spreading rumors about your illicit affair with that long-haired friend of yours. I'm sure that the new hires will be highly amused to hear about your torrid relationship with—"

Gin grabbed her wrist, and raising her arm slightly, jerked Vermouth towards him so that their faces were a mere three inches apart.

"If you ever try to touch my hair again like that, I'll chop off your hand and feed it to the first stray I come across. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the Boss himself, but I assure you that it will be the last mistake you ever make." Every syllable Gin spoke dripped with unspoken promise that he would do precisely that, and accomplish it with no emotion save for the satisfaction of ridding himself of a mosquito.

Vermouth smiled and licked her lips, then suddenly brought them forward to meet Gin's. His eyes widened lightly in surprise, as he felt the soft brush of her lipstick while her mouth moved in a rhythmic pattern that she had used to drive CEO's mad with intoxication. For Vermouth, a kiss was simply a means of asserting her dominance over the male sex, and she had utilized every one of her feminine wiles over the years to coax men's secrets out of them before executing them or leaving them to face the inquisition of a scandal.

Gin wasn't one to take any sort of challenge or threat to his authority lightly, as it only encouraged people to keep testing them, so he responded in kind. Grabbing her shirt right where her center of gravity would be, Gin shoved Vermouth off of her chair while forcing her back to the wall as his lips tried to overpower hers. Vermouth glared at him through venomous eyes. _No man would have power over her_ , her mouth tried to say as she forced her head forward in a resurgence of strength.

It was full-on mouth-to-mouth warfare, as each agent stubbornly refused to relinquish control to the other. In the background, a side door opened, and a relatively young agent slowly entered into the room. At first, he didn't quite register what he was seeing, but once he identified the two figures against the wall, he let out a short "EEP!" and hastily tried to exit the way he had come in.

A dark shadow flashed over Gin's eyes, and he turned his head to find the source of this disturbance, and end it. As soon as he found the agent, his eyes locked in target upon the now-quivering man, who was barely holding himself together facing Gin's fierce glare. Gin stormed over, pulling out his gun and swiftly attached a silencer as he stared down the terrified agent.

Vermouth grabbed the collar of Gin's jacket, and pulled him towards her. "Oh, just leave him be. It's more fun this way, with a witness." Turning to the man, she fixed her own glare on the agent who was pressing himself against a chair, and it petrified him with fear as much as Gin's look did. There was something about the eyes that spoke of hellish retribution if he so much as breathed a word of what he saw.

Returning her gaze towards Gin, her eyes suddenly shifted to a crafty leer. Gin let out an involuntary shudder at seeing that particular expression. It spoke of suppressed lust mixed with saucy determination, and Gin promptly redirected his gun at her, shoving it into her chest just below her ribcage.

Vermouth was not to be deterred, that pressure only egged her on. Licking her lips, she snarked, "Oh, lighten up Gin. I know you're not going to shoot me. You wouldn't want to upset dear old daddy if he has to deal with the fallout my corpse could bring. Damn! All that testosterone is such a rush! Come on, then. Show me you know the real way to use your gun, you arrogant bastard!"

Fighting the urge to just shoot her and damn the consequences, Gin retorted, "I don't take orders from _bitchy_ jackals like yourself. Fuck. You." as his eyes filled started filling with barely muzzled rage and something else that was indescribable.

Ejecting sharply, Vermouth smirked and replied, "That's the idea."

…

For the next three hours, sounds of rough screaming and loud thumps could be heard from the inner sanctum of that bar. Any agent who came decided to poke his head in to find out what was causing this disturbance quickly gave up as he felt a wave of killing intent wash over him. No. Scratch that. **Two** waves of killing intent that were crashing atop one another, causing a fierce lingering presence of aggression and hostility that was laced with the faint hint of carnal satisfaction.

Elsewhere, the boss chuckled to himself, feeling the inexplicable urge to laugh at the sense of someone suffering to a jarring tear in the fabric of sense and sanity.


End file.
